


Endless Nightmares

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28085685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "It is darker than it should be.That’s the first thing he notices.It is dark. Sky a vast sea of blackness, stretching out before him."Jaskier has an odd dream and runs into some issues late one night.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 93





	Endless Nightmares

It is darker than it should be.

That’s the first thing he notices.

It is dark. Sky a vast sea of blackness, stretching out before him.

There should be stars. Glittering and flickering down, little bright lights, dotting the sky. It was always so bright, out here, in the woods. Away from the brightness of the world, the stars could shine, sky bright, blue and grey and gorgeous. A sky you could lose yourself in, staring up at the wonder of the world. lose yourself trying to understand your place in the vast space of everything.

He loves it. A clear, clean night sky. It makes everything seem so small, compared to the vast space, brawling out before you, it strips away all space for concern. How can one worry about the matters of men when faced with such wonder?

It makes his heart swell. Sing and beat and _ache_.

Gods does it ache, a wonderous, wonderful pain. The torturous ache of a beating heart, blood flowing, muscles tug and pull and work. Beating out a beautiful rhythm in a heaving, swelling chest.

It is an ache that reminds you are alive. That you exist and breathe and are.

That in all the vastness of the world, somehow, you get to exist. To be here, to witness this wonder.

There was none of that tonight. No galaxies to lose himself in.

Just darkness. Just deep, empty night.

It is black.

Black in a way the sky shouldn’t be.

It is likely just clouds. He knows that. Reminds himself of such, staring up, into the vast nothingness. It is likely just clouds. Blocking out the light. All of the light, not even the moon strong enough to break through, light up his path this evening.

Gods is it dark. Dark and vast and endless.

But not in a comforting way.

He shouldn’t have gotten up.

Shouldn’t have left the safety of the campsite, the comfortable warmth of his soft bedroll. Taken blind, stumbling steps away, into the trees.

But a heavy bladder had made clear demands. At least he thinks it had. Thinks it had been the weight of the evening’s drinks pressing heavy on his bladder, the remains of ale that he was now regretting that had forced him from his rest.

So, mind still mostly asleep he had groggily complied, a hand brushing against the trees as he goes, bark rough under his fingertips, feet tripping around tree roots and fallen bramble. Still too close to sleep to notice the darkness. The stillness.

It is not until he is half lent up against a tree, bladder finally empty, mind clearing along with the pressure, that he looks up. Head tipped back, staring into the vast darkness above. That he notices the endless black blanket, covering the sky.

It’s just the clouds, he tells himself, taking a moment to tuck himself away. It’s just the clouds, he tells himself, as tired fingers stumble over laces, tying his pants back up. ‘It’s just the clouds,’ he says aloud to himself, staring back up, into the empty sky, “it is just the clouds and nothing more.”

He tries not to notice the way the darkness has dripped down from the sky, spilling out to cover the trees around him. Drip down from heavy, weighted branches, onto the forest floor, staining the very ground below his feet.

Gods does it feel vast. Endless. A never-ending sea of blackness, stretching out in every direction. As though he could push up, off the tree and walk out, into the blackness and just... disappear.

Somehow, he knew, no matter what direction he chose, wherever he walked, he would find nothing more than the empty darkness, stretching out, for all eternity. 

It is as though the world has shrunk. Down to this one spot. One little opening. The patch of ground beneath his feet, a rock he rolls below his boot, the tree, rough and strong and firm below his fingers. It grounds him, the scratch of tough bark, prickly against his skin.

Part of him doesn’t want to push away from it, take a step, and then another. Part of him worries that if he does it will vanish into the darkness. Leave him alone in the blackness. Alone and lost, with no way back to the world.

But he must.

He cannot stay here, back pressed against a tree, standing still in the middle of the woods.

It is cold, night chill already biting at his fingertips. And it is late, and he is tired. Sleep still tugging on his mind. Trying to pull him back in, pull him back to sleep.

He cannot stay here, but gods, does his heart clench at the thought of leaving. Of pressing up, into that blackness.

He reaches out a hand, finds a branch he pulls over, tugs off a leaf, rolling it between his fingers.

It is real, and present and solid. Just like him. Just like the tree.

He tucks it away, into a pocket, plucks free another before releasing the branch. Before taking a breath, deep and heavy. So deep he almost worries the darkness will use it as a chance to push in here too. Drip down, into his lungs, stain the very organs within his body.

It does not. Or at least he thinks it does not. He thinks it is just cool, sweet night air, breathed in deep, settled soft against his ribs, helping calm a panicked heart. He takes another breath and pushes up.

Pushes up off the tree. Off his post. His safety line, leaving it behind. He takes a step, straight, forward, into the darkness. Takes another, and another. He risks a glance behind him, tree already swallowed by the night, gone, into the darkness.

Or perhaps it is him that is gone. The tree still exists, exactly where it stood before, but he is no longer there to see it, eaten by the blackness.

He blinks. Rubs straining eyes. Gods, is it dark.

He rolls the leaf between his fingers, a nervous hand patting his pocket, checking the other is still there. Still real and present, a reminder that despite what his eyes may tell him, the rest of the world does still exist. 

He stares down at his hand, or at least he stares at where he knows his hand to be. Only just present. Only just visible, as though it is already half emerged into the inky blackness itself.

Perhaps it had sunken into his lungs, already stained him inside and out.

He stretches the hand out before him. half hoping to find something at the end of his reach, half afraid of what the darkness might hold.

But he needn’t have worried, for searching fingertips come up empty, finding nothing but black.

The darkness is soft. Like velvet against his fingers, as he bushes against it, searching for anything more, anything real.

Finding nothing.

He takes another step forward. And then another, another, another… until he loses count of the steps he has taken. Loses track of how far he has walked, hand reaching out, into the nothing.

He has not stumbled, he realizes. Hasn’t tripped or tumbled over any errant roots, uneven ground or unseen stones littering the path.

Nothing but smooth, dark dirt, firm underfoot. No dips, drops… _difference_. Ground as endless as the night. The darkness seems to drip in, dribble down from somewhere unseen, splattering against his hair, sticking in fast. It fluctuates, pushes forward, shifting and pulsing, threating to press too far forward, wrap round his shoulders, smother him in the black.

His realizes that somewhere along the way he dropped the leaf. It slipped between slick fingers, fell against the cold, smooth forest floor. If that is even what it still is, black and smooth and endless as it is.

He knows without trying he will never find it again.

So instead, a nervous hand returns to his pocket, searching for the other. Fingers locate the leaf, tug it free of his pocket. He spins it for a moment, feels it crumble, turn to dust within his grasp, fallen aside, so suddenly useless and dead.

Gone as well, into the nothingness, along with the other. Along with everything. Everything he had ever seen, touched, felt, or even known.

Nothing but blackness. Nothing but the empty dark. The empty, endless dark.

He spins, in a slow, lazy circle. Looking for anything, any sign of existence. Any sign of reality, sign of the world he knows. World he wishes to return to.

His ears strain, trying to pick out anything he can. Any hint of sound, hint of existence. The cry of an owl, flutter of wings or scuttling patter of feet crossing the forest floor. The shift of leaves in the wind, rustling, soft and gentle in the air.

His ears find nothing.

Nothing but silence. As endless and stretching as the blackness around him.

There is nothing.

Nothing before him, behind him, below or beneath. Nothing but the empty night.

He breathes. Breathes it in, there is no doubt in his mind this time, that with each breath he pulls the blackness into his lungs along with the air. Knows each heavy shift of his chest pulls it in deeper. Staining his lungs, leaking out, into the bloodstream, veins dyed black, inside and out.

He pulls in another breath. Unsure what else to do, what else he can do, but breath and struggle and drown, under the heavy, pressing weight of the night.

His neck is wet. He isn’t sure when he becomes aware of it, but it is wet. _Sticky._ Hot and burning and … _red_.

Red.

Not black. Not dark and inky nothingness like everything else, but red.

Red and hot and burning. Red like fire, bright and painful against his skin. It burns, body suddenly set alight. Blood not ink now boiling in his veins.

His neck is wet and red and bloody.

His eyes are open.

He had thought they had been open. Thought they had seen the darkness, searched through the vast emptiness, seen it as plainly as the tree he had lent up against, as plain and solid as the leaf he crushed between his fingers. All so real. Solid and true, as true as the beating heart in his chest.

The firm ground beneath his feet. Beneath his head, body sprawled on the ground, staring up, into the inky blackness.

The sky is empty and black. As it had been. The nothingless void he had expected.

But the rest of the world is not.

He can see trees, make out the mark of branches against the inky blue black of the sky. He can see their trunks, weaving down, tied heavy to the earth below.

Earth he can make out as brown and red, deep and rich, he feels it beneath his fingertips, digs nails in, feeling the grit, the weight of it, sticking to the skin.

He closes tired eyes for a moment. Drags in another heavy breath, chest heaving, and opens his eyes once more. Half expecting it all to be gone. To be back in the endless blackness, the endless void.

But it doesn’t vanish. Part of him knew it wouldn’t. Knew it from the scruff of a heel digging into the dirt, the weight wrapped around his legs and the rough scratch of a makeshift pillow tucked beneath his head. He knew it wouldn’t disappear.

He huffs, tugs himself up, best he can. Arms slide to support him on shaky elbows, head raising just enough to look around, world still so dark, details fuzzy in the blackness. He makes out a blanket, still half strewn across his lap, makes out a bag, tossed down beside him, catches the hints of other items, hidden by the night.

And then-

A flash. Violent slash of something bright- white and burning. Like the fire in his neck, hot and slick and _dangerous._ He presses a hand to it. Feels the slickness, the blood, still pouring free.

He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t look at his hand, at the slick wetness he can feel soaking into his shirt, smearing across his chest. He doesn’t want to see. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, careful eyes search the darkness, for the flash of white. For the danger.

It is not hard to find it.

It is a woman.

At least that is his first thought. It _looks_ like a woman, at first glance, in the musty darkness of the night, to a tired, heavy mind, it looks like a woman at first. A beautiful young lady, hair as red as the blood staining her bone white gown. Staring out defiantly at the form of the Witcher, truly a lady lacking any fear.

It was a woman.

Until one took a second glance, gave themselves a moment to look closer, notice the glint of teeth, just a touch too sharp, the pointed ears, nails too long, pointed and deadly.

Blood drips from ~~her~~ it’s chin, and he has a sinking feeling he may know where that blood had come from, neck still throbbing.

It tilts its head, considering. Nose scrunched up, lip curled over, baring those bright, deadly teeth. Dark eyes flick for a moment, from Geralt to Jaskier. He feels as though they are drilling into him, stripping back the skin and leaving him bare.

He shivers at the sight. Suddenly feeling the bite of the air, cold against warm flesh, drying wet blood against his skin.

Before him, Geralt shifts, a heavy sword swings… meeting empty air. Creature already moving with terrifying speed. It seems almost to dance out of the way, light tip toes barely even appearing to touch the ground.

Nimble feet carrying it out of danger before suddenly darting forward, sharp nails slashing towards Geralt’s face.

The Witcher ducks the blow, side stepping it with ease, sword raising in an attempt to strike back. It almost hits. Almost, sword tip catching nothing more than the fluttering edge of its dress, missing anything important.

The creature darts back, spinning away, into the cover of the trees.

He expects Geralt to follow, chase the beast down and end it, but to his surprise the Witcher does not give chase. Instead, Geralt stands firm, sword held at the ready, head tilted to the side, face furrowed in concentration. Listening. Looking, eyes searching the gaps between the trees, waiting for the being to show itself again.

Jaskier looks as well, searching the blackness, for any flicker of white.

They don’t have to wait long.

It appears with a scream.

The sound is inhumanly loud. Inhumanly _sharp._ He snaps his hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut as though that would help block out the sound, head vibrating with the scream.

Curled up tight Jaskier doesn’t see it as it leaps from its hiding spot, seeming as though it had materialized around a tree trunk, eyes wide, wild and crazed.

Unseen by Jaskier, Geralt curses, digs a heel in, tries to shake off the buzz in his head, ignore the deafening roar, he cannot afford to be distracted now.

He waits as long as he can. Lets it get as close as he can, the sound worsening the longer he waits, pounding around his skull, leaving him shaken, head feeling as though it may split, crack open and leave his brains to pour out, into the messy dirt below.

He waits as long as he can.

Until it becomes unbearable. Until he hears the bard start to scream alongside it, human head struggling to deal with the noise.

Finally, nails inches from his throat, he swings.

Quick and sharp, one clean move, and a head leaves a body, fallen aside, into the dirt.

The sound stops.

Jaskier gasps, shaking, head still pounding, sound still ringing in his ears.

He uncurls slowly, eyes slide open, landing on the pale head fallen in the dirt, the ground around it already stained red with blood.

He pulls in a shaking breath, eyes unable to leave the blank, dead stare of the beast, dark, piercing pupils staring out yet seeing nothing. The blood looks black on its skin. Black and inky.

He jumps when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, breaking him from his trance.

Jaskier flicks tired eyes upward, meeting the Witcher’s stare.

His breath hitches at the sight.

Geralt’s eyes are black.

Black and empty and endless.

Distantly, he feels himself freeze, body locked up, breath caught in his chest, unable to move. Distantly he feels the shake set into his hands, body twitching nervously, tension sharp, pushing him to run.

But it is a distant push, felt by his muscles, his bones and his flesh, but not his mind.

For his mind is lost in the blackness. The endless night captured in Geralt’s eyes.

It is only for a moment. A single breath, before Geralt shifts, before Jaskier’s mind catches up, breaks the spell.

But it is a moment that seems to drag into an eternity. An endless, inky sea of black.

Then Geralt shifts, mouth opening ever so slightly to say something, and Jaskier’s vision drops to the _teeth_.

White teeth.

Sharp and pointed and dangerous. Too sharp to be human. Too sharp to be right.

Desperate, screaming muscles win out, he flinches. Hard. Flings himself back, body moving without the mind, not caring to wait for explanation, for reason or trust. The body has no time for such things, only focused on one, driving thought, ‘ _run._ ’

He does not run.

He half scrambles a few paces, away from the hand on his shoulder, the familiar face of the Witcher, now pulled together in a deep, dangerous frown.

He gasps, half choking on his own spit, desperately sucking down air, one hand pressed to his chest. Feeling his heart- pounding in his chest, loud and panicked. He coughs, splutters. Gags, half keeled over, trying to calm enough just to get a breath.

Finally, he does. He manages to calm the panic in his blood, the tension in his bones. Short, shallowed gasps become long, deep heaves, as his body slowly settles. Mind allowed to catch up.

To roll over itself in a dizzying rush, desperately trying to piece together just enough information to understand. To realise what he had done. To panic.

“Jaskier…” the word is quiet, a whisper, carried on the wind. It is as though Geralt is scared he will startle again, scared he will run.

~~Maybe he would.~~

He sucks in another breath, offers a tired, disconnected nod in Geralt’s general direction. Part of him not daring to look up. Not because he is afraid, of the Witcher, of the eyes and teeth and monstrosity he had seen before.

But because he is scared of what he can only imagine Geralt’s face will show. Scared that if he looks, he will see pain, or anger, or perhaps just cold indifference, Geralt having already closed off any glimmers of emotion, leaving him nothing but an empty, uncaring slate.

He isn’t sure which would be worse.

But he knows either way he doesn’t want to see it.

He swallows. Squeezes closed tired eyes, throwing himself willingly back into the darkness. Better that then face the pain of Geralt’s stare.

“Jaskier.” It is still quiet, still soft, but only just slightly louder, with just an edge of a bite to it. The edge of a warning.

He looks over. Slowly, carefully, as though now he is worried he will startle if he moves too fast. Carefully uncurls, unfolds and forces his eyes open once again, forces himself to turn, careful eyes taking their time.

His gaze drags its way up Geralt’s form, up, pausing on the nervous hand, clasped tight around the handle of a blade, the blood, shining on leather armor. Up to the jaw line, splattered and stained with blood as well, and then up further.

To the eyes.

Geralt’s face is almost blank. Almost empty _. Almost_. He can just make out the edge of something in there. The edge of hurt, mixed with something else. The edge of worry. Edge of concern.

He drops his gaze away from Geralt’s face. Not wanting to see it. See that suggestion of pain in the Witcher’s eyes.

He shifts, a nervous hand rubs at his neck, almost half surprised to still find it slick with blood, having all but forgotten about the wound. He lifts the hand from his neck, staring at the red staining his fingers.

He swallows. Manages to drag out the words, “what happened?”

Geralt shrugs, glancing down at the corpse at his feet, offering it a firm nudge with the toe of a hard boot. “Vampire,” he all but grunts out. 

Jaskier nods at that, not entirely sure why he does, but not sure what else he could do instead. He raises his head, stretches out tired shoulders, feeling the heavy ache in his neck. The radiating pain,

A vampire…

The thought hits him like a wall. Full body coursing with fear, a _vampire._

“Does this mean I’ll…” he swallows. Not wanting to finish the question, voice it and make it real. Face the answer, “I’ll become a… a…”

“No.” The answer is blunt. Direct and certain. Exactly what he needs it to be. “No, it doesn’t work like that.” 

He is unable to hold back a heavy sigh of relief at that, thank the gods. A nervous pounding in his chest that he hadn’t even been aware of settling down in his chest. He sighs again, lets his head tip back, staring up, into the sky. The clouds had begun to clear, letting little pockets of stars shine through.

Bright little patches of twinkling lights, winking down at him. Little windows into the wider world, little reminders of reality.

He stares for a moment, thinking, letting his mind wander, staring up, into the beauty of the sky. He takes a moment to breathe, to order his mind and settle before he speaks, “I had a dream… a nightmare.”

Geralt grunts, nods, a cut off, sharp movement, “vampires can do that.”

Jaskier hums, a light frown touching his face, “it was dark. Empty.”

Geralt frowns as well. Nervous eyes flick around, as though looking for an out, but failing to find one he instead asks, “what was?”

Jaskier shrugs. Feeling the tug of his open wound at the action, “everything. Everything was empty and black and… nothing.” He takes in a breath, watching the stars, “everything was empty, and I was… alone.”

Geralt grunts in answer. Shifts unsure and uncomfortable on unbalanced feet.

A hand reaches up, towards the sky, towards the stars, “it was black… and… I… I saw it again for a moment, in your eyes.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, doesn’t offer a word of response. Jaskier doesn’t know if he should continue, doesn’t know what else he could say, doesn’t even really know why he had just said what he had.

So, they simply sit for a moment, breathing. Staring at the stars. Staring at the corpse, blood soaking into fabric, dirty and stained.

It is Geralt who breaks the stillness in the end, bending to grab the creature’s head, kick the body aside. He doesn’t move it far, not wanting the trouble. Not wanting to leave Jaskier. So instead, he simply drags the corpse to the edge of camp, just into the tree lines. Staying in sight, staying close enough not be a worry.

The body is dropped with a heavy thud, blood wiped clear from his hands onto the corner of his shirt as he wanders back towards the bard. Jaskier still sitting in silence, staring at the stars.

The silence is allowed to continue for a moment longer, until finally Geralt breaks that as well, “we need to tend to your neck.”

Jaskier shifts, managing to tear his gaze away from the sky, tear his mind from the stars. He nods, half minded and tired, feeling the sting and tug of broken flesh with each movement. He nods but does little else, empty searching stare shifted down, to the dirt.

Geralt offers an unseen nod in answer. A quiet, rough, “good.”

Geralt waits a moment longer, to see if Jaskier will continue. To see if Jaskier will say anything else before he moves. Before he digs out a full waterskin, taking a moment to wash the remains of the mess from his hands before he turns his attention to Jaskier’s neck.

Water washes away half dried blood. Clears away the mess and leaves the damage clear to see.

Flesh torn open, a messy, raw bite. It is mercifully shallow, nothing vital damaged in the mess. Jaskier would be fine. Blood would scab over open wounds, flesh would slowly regrow, and he would be fine.

He didn’t think it even warranted stitches.

Geralt finds the bandages. A clean cloth. Sets on cleaning out the wound properly, feels Jaskier wince, shift uncomfortably at initial contact.

They stay silent for the most part, as Geralt carefully cleans the blood and dirt away.

Until the silence finally becomes stifling. Until Jaskier can’t stand it any longer.

He opens his mouth, closes it uselessly before opening it again. Manages to mumble out the words, “I’m sorry.”

Geralt grunts, “for what?”

Jaskier pauses. Mind run blank- ‘for what’ “for…” he trails off, “for…” For flinching. For wanting to run. For fear and pain and letting himself get lost in a nightmare.

“I’m just… I’m sorry.”

Geralt grunts again, offers a silent nod.

Jaskier shivers. Feeling the chill in the air. The chill in his veins. He hums. Head tilts to the side, letting Geralt carefully press gentle cloth to the bite mark, carefully wind clean bandages around the wound.

It feels oddly unfinished, apology made but still some small part of his chest ached. Some part of his chest was tight and agonising and awful. At the memory of the hint of pain in Geralt’s eyes. Not sure the apology had been enough to fix it.

As though reading his panicked thoughts Geralt speaks again, “it was just a nightmare Jaskier.”

He nods. Unsure what else to do, wishing the words had done more to calm the ache in his chest.

Geralt sighs, setting the bandages aside, wound clean, covered, as protected as it can be, “be careful with it.”

Jaskier nods again, a hand moving to brush the bandages, as though confirming they are there. 

“Leave it,” Geralt says, “we can have a professional look at it when we reach town if it’s still bothering you,”

“… and you’re sure I won’t become… one of them?”  
Geralt sighs, heavy with a hint of exhaustion, “it doesn’t work like that Jaskier.”

He isn’t sure what to say to that, so he offers no more than yet another silent nod.

Geralt stands, shifts, turns his attention to tiding away the mess. Put away the bandages, the bloody cloth rinsed out, tucked away for later.

Jaskier watches quietly, unsure what to do. Part of him knowing he should settle back down for the night, try to get some more sleep before morning comes.

But for some reason part of him holds back at the thought. Perhaps it is the corpse, lying only a little way from where he now sat, the worry, still sharp in his mind, or something else, something new entirely.

He settles back all the same. To make an attempt at it, if nothing else.

He tries to get comfortable, staring upwards, towards the sky. Towards the stars, not wanting to close his eyes. Part of him terrified of what may happen if he does. In case the world drops away once again, vanishes into nothingness, leaving him in the empty blackness once more.

He catches Geralt as the Witcher passes, a hand extending without thought, reaching towards the man, a soft, quiet sound escaping from his throat. Geralt stops, raising an eyebrow, a quiet, “what?”

He pauses, not even sure what he wants to say, not entirely sure why he stopped the Witcher.

Geralt’s eyebrow quirks further at the silence, offering a soft sigh before finally shifting, as though moving to leave-

“-wait!”

Jaskier leans forward sharply, hand outstretched, breath hitching, sharp and quick.

Geralt stops again, waiting yet again, eyes on the bard.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, settles back down, mind spinning to find something else to say. Finally stumbling out the word, “…stay.”

Geralt snorts, “it’s the middle of the night Jaskier, where would I go?”

“no… no stay here… just- right here…” he pauses, seeing the hesitation on Geralt’s face “…please.”

Geralt huffs. Frowns, eyes glancing away before flicking back. He huffs again before finally offering a tired, “okay… okay fine.”

Geralt steps away all the same, and for a moment Jaskier thinks that will be it, Geralt hadn’t understood the request, or didn’t care, but then the Witcher returns, tossing down his bundled blanket of a pillow beside Jaskier’s own.

Geralt settles down with a heavy groan, grumbling quietly under his breath. But he sits. He adjusts, hitting the ground with a hard thud beside Jaskier. Jaskier shifts, unsure if he wants to shuffle to the side, give the man room, or shuffle closer, press their shoulders tight together, use the touch to keep back the pulsing blackness he can sense behind his eyes.

He realizes he isn’t entirely sure how he wants this to work, pressed too close, no space allowed.

Beside him, Geralt sighs, “If you continue thinking that loudly, I’m leaving.”

He feels himself freeze for a moment at that, pull in a breath, trying to quiet his now panicking mind.

Geralt sighs again, shifts slightly. Just enough that an arm presses against Jaskier’s.

It helps.

He doesn’t know why but it does.

It is just enough touch not to be overwhelming. Distracting and surrounding in its own way.

But enough to help. To push back the blackness. Centre him, make sure he knows he is still there, still present in reality.

Not lost in empty darkness.

The stretching black eternity.

Not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading-


End file.
